Free verse № 110376
Corner of 30th and Tibbs
There couldn't be in these streets,
of hoped for death and rain slicked dark,
the possibility of the recent-new of guiltless lovers.
And it seems in these windless alley ways
of again and shadows,
there could never be a child's smile.
Hard to imagine the symmetry of sweet kind eyes
looking into mine (big and brown),
beneath the dim-yellow of street lamp's watch.
Cannot believe the asphalt dusk and dreams,
of these accusing cracked sidewalks,
ever let sympathy pass.
Was there ever unbroken or unfaded
in these still gray streets
of since forgotten?
And will there ever be on these streets
of hoped for death and rain slicked dark,
the chance of a child's smile or the recent - new of guiltless lovers?
31 comments
with words or actions - the start of love is always the sweetest
part you remember.A young faultless couple ...an ideal.
And not to try to be overly picky, but I just hate to see that same mistake: contractions are always on the letter that you cut out (i.e. - can't, aren't, don't, etc.)
regret, 6
continuity, 2 {of again and shadows}?
intensity 8.
rewrite. total 6
I thank you for your observation and thought,and I will amend this feeling/poem the best I can.
Like,I don't know, maybe learning how to express yourself.
how to read and write or educated in a particular field or one who is literary or well written.So before you spew your ignorant opinion try to understand that others wright their deep - true emotions first and then think about puncuation.I'll agree I'm very lacking when it comes to grammar and puncuation,but I have studied and love the written
word and is that not what matters most?Is poetry not grace,beauty and harmony?Would an unaccomplished Van Gough's brush stroke be less artistic?Would truth be false if it was not puncuated properly?Accidence lives far past our renovation.
And as to wallyish - sorry about your luck and life.
PS
I hope your violent fantasies end soon - take your Prozac.
Furthermore, your retorts are the weakest ever.
"Punctuation," said Lord Bumlington-Smithe, "is the art of precision. Without it, one cannot surmount the dung-soaked drudgery of a peasant-like literacy, to soar majestically through the meandering colons and semi-colons of Gentlemanhood."
Bumlington-Smithe leant towards Rutherford, eyes closed, smugness oozing from every orifice. His glass of Brandy teetered at an absurdly jaunty angle as he mulled over the extraordinary profundity of what he had just said. But it was not its profundity that silenced the Ambassador's guests. Nor was it Weatherby-Browne's subsequent, and rather unfortunate, outburst of broken wind.
It was its impertinence.
It was well known, among Important Gentlemen Of The Towne, that Rutherford had, as an undergraduate, arranged a May Week garden party in the "Trinity College Fellow's Garden." Of course, as every neglected Fellow knew only too well, the apostrophe should have been placed after the "s". As you can imagine, the damage to his reputation as both a Scholar and a Gentleman was irreparable. It was with the memory of this disgrace still ripe in his mind that Rutherford stood up, put down his glass, and strode around the table - thinking - figuring. Then, in an act of baffling cruelty, he seized Sir Fotherington's plate and hurled a two-volley barrage of Beeves Wellington at Bumlington-Smithe. The helpless Lord still had his eyes closed when the airborne Beeves collided with his face.
Lady Queensbury fainted.
Arthur Weatherby-Browne broke wind.
And Bumlington-Smithe sat there aghast, his embrowned face punctuated with a curious mixture of Madeira Sauce, and Shame.
"Oh Dear," said Rutherford, "I appear to have mispunctuated a Fellow!!!!!!111111"
Exercises:
1. To demonstrate that knowledge of punctuation is not an important part of being literate, rewrite the passage above without using any punctuation. [100 marks]
2. For an extra bonus, get someone who doesn't understand punctuation to read the passage above. How the fuck can they? [1 mark]
and regardless of your lack of punctuation skills,
this is not a prose poem
Go hang yourself(have you thought about it?) - and do poetry(and poemranker) a favor.
I wish I could go to Whittier and let you lick my sack.
Or Jeremy sucks dick?
Or Jaromi loves young boys?
0r Horus just ate my sack?
Or Bachus up your dick one more time?
Or PoemCanker?
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